


just let me know

by blaqqkat (she_was_art)



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Exes, F/F, Homecoming, Mild Language, Post-Break Up, School Dances, Slow Burn, Sports, adora is a jock, catra is a lesbian queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 05:49:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16759186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/she_was_art/pseuds/blaqqkat
Summary: The worst thing about dating your best friend is that when she inevitably leaves you like everyone else, you will have no girlfriend and no best friend to cry to about it....Catra's life is a wreck. Her coach hates her, she's fresh off a breakup, and her now-ex is a likely candidate for Homecoming queen. So when an opportunity to cause chaos at the Homecoming dance arises, Catra doesn't hesitate to take it.So, of course, things get complicated.





	just let me know

**Author's Note:**

> in these trying times, i offer you angsty catradora. please excuse any mistakes; i have no beta reader and, frankly, have reached a heightened level of existence that has eliminated all fear of typos.

_ losing interest, _

_ you won’t find no better than this _

_ i swear, girl, if you leave _

* * *

The worst thing about dating your best friend is that when she inevitably leaves you like everyone else, you will have no girlfriend  _ and _ no best friend to cry to about it. Catra should’ve known, honestly. She understands the twisted game of cat and mouse life likes to play with her, and years of experience has taught her how to get out unscathed:

  * Expect people to betray you.
  * Only rely on yourself.
  * Claw your way to the top at any cost.



But Adora had been different. She had hair spun of sunshine and a smile like daybreak after a long night. She’d been there to wipe every tear, bandage every wound, chase away every fear. She always knew just how to soften Catra’s rough edges and smooth down her raised hackles. Maybe it was because Adora was the only person who’d ever held her hand and promised her forever.

(Forever doesn’t last nearly as long as Catra thought it meant.)

— — — 

Soccer practice is the fucking worst. Catra still loves the sport, the thrill of matches, the rush of winning— but all the drills and team building can eat her whole ass. Practices are two hours, every weekday. Two hours of standing around with a bunch of scrubs who can’t seem to get their foots out of their asses for long enough to kick the ball into the damned net. Practice didn’t used to feel so tedious. But then again, Adora used to be here.

Catra tosses her duffel bag near the bleachers on her way out to the field, the rest of the team already halfway through a set of mountain climbers. She rolls her shoulders as she saunters across the field, cracking her knuckles before dropping down to join in for the last few reps. Catra stops when a boot plants itself uncomfortably close to one of her hands.

“You’re late, Catra,” a cold voice informs her, its cruelty wrapping itself around her. “ _ Again _ .”

Catra shifts onto her knees, steeling herself. When she looks up at her coach, she hopes the attitude her eyes convey is defiant. Or brave. Or even just nonplussed. But when they meet eyes, Catra just feels small and worthless.

“Observant as ever, Coach Weaver,” Catra goads. (Because even if she’s chicken shit, there’s no way in hell she’ll let anyone know.) “And here I thought you never noticed anything other than those shiny trophies you’re so obsessed with.”

“How’s this for observation: You’re a disrespectful brat who’s only team captain because the far superior candidate left,” Coach Weaver hisses, leaning down to speak in Catra’s face. “And you’ll be doing suicides for the next thirty minutes. Starting  _ now _ .”

Coach Weaver stands straight, word final. The other girls snicker as Catra slinks over to other side of the field, not even bothering to muffle their laughter as she passes. ( _ She totally deserves it _ , one of them whispers.  _ Of course. Where does she get off thinking she’s so important? _ the other responds.) When Catra reaches the back of the group, she hovers there, unable to let it go.

“You said you’d cover me,” Catra mutters to Lonnie, hand fisting in her shorts. “Because I had to make up a test after class.”

“Did I?” Lonnie asks blithely, stretching her quads. “Must’ve slipped my mind.”

This sends the girl next to her into a twittering trill of laughter, Lonnie joining in soon after. Catra clenches her jaw, hoping they laugh hard enough to choke.  _ Expect people to betray you _ . She keeps her eyes trained straight ahead, lip curled as she stomps away.  _ Expect people to betray you. _ Catra breaks into a sprint, pretending Coach Weaver’s disapproving eyes aren’t raking over her form in search of a flaw that she can tear apart.  _ Expect people to betray you. _

She runs until her lungs ache, pausing for a minute before doing it all again. She hears the other girls giggle with each other as they do drills and looks over to see them smiling and pushing each other around like they’re in a damned after school special. Catra ignores the stinging in her eyes and pushes herself harder. She tells herself that she had been dreading those fucking drills anyway, and she’s glad that she gets to carve out some time to herself. (It’s the same mantra she tells herself when she sits alone on the bus. And at lunch. And during study hall.)

_ You’re alone _ , a voice murmurs to her.  _ You’ll always be alone. It’s better that way. _

— — —

With a graduating class of 935 people in a school with over 3500 students, it takes no less than an act of God to have a class schedule that aligns well between any two particular individuals. When Catra and Adora had gotten their class schedules in June, they’d been bummed out about not sharing any classes. (Little did they know, their impending breakup would make this a blessing in disguise.)

The statistical anomaly of two people having nearly identical schedules is part of what makes the very existence of Scorpia Rojas so infuriating. Scorpia Rojas is bright and friendly and enjoys making jokes— exactly the kind of person Catra cannot cope with. So of course she shares not one, but  _ five _ of the six classes in Catra’s schedule,  _ and _ she’s on the soccer team. It’s like she’s a living, breathing poltergeist committed to haunting Catra’s academic career. And to make matters worse, she’s hellbent on being Catra’s  _ friend _ .

(Do you see Catra’s problem now?)

So when Catra’s English teacher announces that everyone will get to ( _ i.e. be forced to _ ) partner up for a semester-long project requiring students to analyze a classic novel of their choosing, Catra already knows what’s going to happen. Still, she watches it all unfold like a predictable horror movie, her feeble attempt to stop it sending adrenaline pumping and her heartbeat pulsing in her ears. She looks around as people move their desks to sit with their chosen partners, trying to find someone.  _ Anyone _ . When she hears the heavy  _ thud _ of someone plopping their desk next to hers, Catra knows it's too late.

“I love group assignments! They’re such a great way to make friends,” her self-assigned partner exclaims.

Catra looks over to see Scorpia beaming at her, waiting expectantly for her response. Catra quells the urge to roll her eyes.

“Group projects. Yay,” Catra supplies monotonously, resting her face in her hand.

“That’s the spirit! Now let’s get down to the project; we have about forty books to choose from. My bet is that everyone will be doing  _ The Great Gatsby _ , so we should…”

Scorpia goes on like this until the end of class. When the bell rings, they still have not picked a book and now have somehow added each other on Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter and Facebook. Scorpia also adds her number to Catra’s phone (her name bracketed by smiley faces and crab emojis), and Catra receives no less than seven texts by the time the final bell rings.

Honestly, she expected nothing less.

— — —

Homecoming is a month away, and the posters are all over school. Catra was never into school dances anyway, but this year she recoiled at the very thought of it. And, yeah, maybe it had something to do with Adora smiling front and center in the lineup of Homecoming princess candidates on every printout. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that they’d always made fun of the perfect little princesses that had always been nominated before.

( _ “Oh, I’m such a perfect little princess,” Adora used to whine. “Everyone should worship me and kiss my feet.” _ )

( _ “I can think of better places to kiss,” Catra used to flirt back, loving the flush that would crawl from Adora’s collarbones to her ears. _ )

And maybe Catra’s disgust had something to do with her mind, unbidden, fabricating pictures of Adora, grinning ear to ear as she accepts her crown. Adora, giggling happily to her friends before striding to the center of the dance floor while applause rings out throughout the gymnasium. Adora, slow dancing with someone else under the low lights, whispering all sorts of promises in their ear that she’ll never keep.

_ Adora— _ happy without her.

That night Catra dreams that Adora and her friends laugh at her from the spotlight, making fun of her $20 dress and wild hair. Adora leers at her, teeth and tiara glittering as she leans in to press a kiss to Catra’s cheek. The mark her lips leave sizzles when she pulls away, disintegrating her flesh like an acid burn. When Catra wakes up, she half-expects the shape of Adora’s lips to be imprinted into her skin.

The next day Catra brings a Sharpie to school and defaces every Homecoming poster she can find. She gets caught, of course. As she sits in detention, she thinks about the ridiculous handlebar mustache she’d gifted Adora in the enormous poster overlooking the cafeteria and smiles.

_ Worth it. _

— — — 

“Hey, buddy! How’s it going?”

Adora always used to tell Catra that if she keeps rolling her eyes so hard, they’ll get stuck that way. And even if that were true, how could Catra  _ not _ roll her eyes when faced with some strange humanoid being that unironically goes around calling people  _ buddy _ ?

“Life is shitty as always, Scorpia,” Catra mutters, pulling her clothes out of her locker and stuffing her sweaty athletic wear inside. Scorpia laughs, as if Catra just told a funny joke.

“You’re a hoot,” she chuckles, throwing an arm over Catra’s shoulders. Which, while normally uncomfortable, is downright awkward due to their mutual state of undress.

“Personal  _ space _ ,” Catra hisses, worming out of Scorpia’s hold. Scorpia shrugs, continuing to parade around topless while Catra quickly redresses. Where Scorpia gets all that body confidence, Catra will never know.

“Coach Weaver was pretty hard on you today,” Scorpia volunteers, like that’s a fun route for the conversation to follow.

“She’s hard on me every day,” Catra replies, not bothering to look up as she buttons her jeans.

“Don’t worry! She only does that ‘cuz she knows you’re tough as nails.”

“Yeah, I know,” Catra mutters. Even though she’s not so sure. Even though she sometimes thinks that if Principal Hordak hadn’t seen their matches and known about Catra’s potential, Coach Weaver would’ve already cut her from the team. And then where would she be?

Scorpia’s still chattering on about something or other, following Catra as she stalks out of the locker room. Catra pointedly ignores the poster with this year’s Homecoming Court, freshly reprinted to replace the one she’d defaced the week before. Without her creative spin, the poster just had the same bland offerings as before— a bunch of fake-ass bitches and dudebros. Oh yeah, and the Brutus to her Julius Caesar. No thanks.

It’s as they’re passing through the indoor court that Scorpia says, “The volleyball team sure is working hard.” And, like a dumbass, Catra looks over to see for herself.

As much as Catra hates the volleybitches, she has to admit that the team is good. Mermista is ready to dive for a hit at any moment, and Glimmer is everywhere at once. (She’s so fast that watching her is like witnessing teleportation.) But the player who’s so crazy good that Catra finds herself stopping in her tracks is none other than her traitorous, lying (infuriatingly perfect,  _ beautiful _ ) ex-girlfriend. Adora plays the court like she owns it, ponytail whipping around her neck as she jumps up to spike the ball with more finesse than anyone who’s only been playing for a couple months should have.

“That was great, Adora!”

Catra watches as Glimmer rushes over to tackle Adora into a bear hug, the rest of the team quick to follow suit. Adora laughs, and the sound ignites a fresh ache in Catra’s chest. And it’s stupid. Everything is stupid, but Catra can’t keep herself from feeling it all. She looks down at the gymnasium floor, clenching her fists as her eyes burn and the world goes all blurry. Scorpia gently taps her wrist.

“I think Adora’s looking at you,” she murmurs, voice quieter than Catra’s ever heard it before. And if Scorpia, who is loud and brash and bad at social cues, can read her, then there’s no doubt everyone else can, too.

When Catra looks over, she sees that Adora has the audacity to look at Catra with forlorn eyes like they’d had some tragic mutual breakup. Like she misses her. Just the thought of it has Catra’s blood burning so hot that her pulse races, her hands clenched to the point of shaking. The enormous cart full of volleyballs is a convenient two feet away, and Catra acts without thinking.

(When does she not, though?)

Catra viciously yanks the cart to the ground, the volleyballs inside tumbling out and speeding across the gym. The brats on the volleyball team cry out and gasp dramatically, clutching their metaphorical pearls. When one of the balls rolls too close to Catra’s foot, she kicks it hard enough for it to fly up and hit the rafters. The ball hurdles towards Glimmer’s head on its descent, and Catra felt the sadistic beginnings of a smile curling at her lips as Glimmer screamed and ducked out of the way.

Catra looks back at Adora, smirk ever-growing.  _ You wanna pity me?  _ Catra’s eyes ask— no, demand.  _ I’m strong enough without you. I don’t need you _ . But her smirk halts when she gets a good look at Adora’s face. There’s no anger, no indignation, no pain. Just disappointment. Catra grits her teeth, pretending it doesn’t gut her.

“Catra,” Adora calls out, breaking from her team. She jogs over, ponytail whipping back and forth, and the world moves in slow motion. Catra  _ hates _ it.

“Let’s go,” Catra mutters, grabbing Scorpia by the forearm and stomping away without listening for a response.

“Catra! Wait!”

Catra ignores Adora calling out to her back. She reminds herself that she doesn’t need Adora— that she doesn’t need  _ anyone _ . No matter how hard she tries to mean it, the words sound hollow in her own ears.

— — — 

Horacio DePaz High School, affectionately called  _ Horde High _ , is the biggest school in east L.A. and physical manifestation of “survival of the fittest”. In the three years Catra’s attended this school, she has witnessed seven fist fights in the cafeteria (three of which she may have started), three pregnancy scandals (none of which affected Catra, because Lesbian God is good), and two run ins with the school security officers (both of which heavily affected Catra because apparently you’re not supposed to keep a switchblade and mace, respectively, in your bookbag).

Lunch is usually Catra’s chance to get away from the madness. She likes to go to the math and science building on the far side of campus and and eat alone on the staircase. So, of course, even that gets ruined for her.

“I see why you like it here,” Scorpia says around a mouthful of potato chips. “It’s nice and quiet.”

“Yeah,” Catra mutters in agreeance. “It  _ was _ .”

“You’re right,” Scorpia says between swigs of water. “I think I hear some people down the hall.”

Catra sighs and rests her forehead on her knees. She hasn’t been able to shake her new companion since the fiasco in the gym last week. Scorpia continues yammering on about something or other, her words melding into one another. Catra sighs and resigns herself to eating her sandwich.

“-a lot of Homecoming posters, aren’t there? I don’t remember this many last year.”

“Don’t remind me,” Catra glowers, mouth full of pastrami and provolone.

“Yeah, I hate them, too,” Scorpia complains. “There are so many better pictures of me they could’ve used.”

Catra sits up ramrod straight, turning to scrutinize a nearby poster. And wouldn’t you know, right amongst all the other Homecoming princess nominees is Scorpia Rojas, her messy white-blonde hair and black lipstick sticking out like a sore thumb amongst all the other princesses. Considering Catra’s begrudging obsession with the posters, she sorta felt like an idiot for never having noticed.

“You’re… a princess?”

“I mean, technically,” Scorpia sighs, running a hand through her hair. “My parents donate a lot of money to the school, so Principal Hordak always puts me in the Homecoming court. I never go to the dances, though, ‘cuz I’m pretty sure all the other nominees hate me and-”

“Oh my God,” Catra interrupts, hand flying to Scorpia’s shoulder. “ _ Scorpia _ .”

“Uh,” Scorpia stammers, brows knitted together. “Yeah?”

“You wanna go to Homecoming with me?”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i think this will be like 5 chapters??? who knows, man.  
> (the lyrics are from a song called [ losing interest ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sabUcQ5EPHY). i'm obsessed.)  
> [ Tumblr ](https://heyyyyyadora.tumblr.com)


End file.
